


An Old Story

by TourmalineQueen



Series: Rozenn the Breton [17]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Rozenn has No Idea that she is descended from Martin Septim and the Hero of Kvatch, Storytelling Dragonborn, Storytelling Nords, bits of Oblivion lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 03:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20650397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineQueen/pseuds/TourmalineQueen
Summary: Scar StoriesI freaking love the scars in Skyrim, because I feel like scars always have a story. Give me scar stories, anons! What happened to Argis the Bulwark to render him blind in one eye? Are the scars on Ulfric's cheek from his captivity, or something more mundane? What about Saadia's identifying scar (the one the Alik'r look for to make sure they have the right person)? How did the Dragonborn get their scars?Bonus points if you can reconcile the existence of scars (some of the ones in character creation are pretty beastly!) with a world where there's healing magic/potions.Bored Stormcloaks tell stories to pass the time. Who could have a more interesting tale than the Dragonborn? Frankly anybody, in Rozenn's opinion.





	An Old Story

Night was falling as Rozenn walked to Whiterun from the Valheim Towers. She ached a little from a shield bash she hadn't been able to block, but her pack was weighted down with valuable armour and a couple of weapons with enchantments she had never seen before. It would be worth the trouble once she borrowed Farengar's enchanting table.

Looking up to the heavens, Rozenn cursed and muttered invective under her breath: instead of starlight and the moons, the night had clouded over, and it looked ready to spill either heavy snow or a downpour any moment. A distant glimpse of firelight on the hill to the left gave her pause. She smiled a little. The Stormcloaks wouldn't begrudge her a bedroll or a tent for the night, and she would be happy and dry.

She was surprised to see two familiar faces in the Whiterun Stormcloak camp when she arrived: Galmar Stone-Fist and Ralof were speaking with the quartermaster. Silently, Rozenn stepped up behind the Stormcloak general and hugged him. She felt him tense up for a brief instant, then relax into the touch.

"Breton," he said dryly, "wasn't expecting you."

"I've had a long month, thought I might share your fire, borrow a bedroll, that sort of thing," Rozenn replied, still holding Galmar about the waist.

Galmar turned in the circle of her arms and lifted her up of the ground to look at her eye to eye.

"Fine. But I have to warn you-"

"Warn me?" Rozenn lifted a brow.

"These men have been posted here for weeks without any action. They're _bored_," Galmar said, deadpan serious.

"You know what that means, Rozenn?" Ralof chimed in. "Stories. I bet you've got some good ones."

Rozenn sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. "Just because I'm Dragonborn doesn't mean I'm interesting."

Ralof gave her his best puppy-dog eyes and raised his clasped hands. "Please Dragonborn? Please tell us a story?"

Rozenn turned her gaze back to Galmar, who had not put her down yet, seeming to enjoy having her helpless in his arms. "I suppose this is all _your_ idea?"

Galmar shrugged and grunted. "It saves me having to tell the tale of how I collected all my scars - again."

"Fiiiiiine. Put me down and feed me, then think about what tale you'd like me to tell," Rozenn sighed, aiming a subtle wink at Ralof.  
While Rozenn had performed her ablutions and napped in her tent, the Stormcloaks had moved their campfire to a more discreet part of the camp, where tents and the natural formation of rocks hid the light from the road below, and also, conveniently, the limestone flats around the area made excellent seats.

One Stormcloak whose name Rozenn couldn't remember handed her a bowl of hot stew when she sat down. Rozenn, who hadn't eaten since leaving Falkreath, thought it was the best thing she had eaten in months. Once the watch had been decided, most of the soldiers sat around the fire with Rozenn, Ralof and Galmar finding places at her left and right, respectively. All the Stormcloaks looked at her, staring expectantly.

"What?"

"You're going to tell us a story, aren't you?" Ralof prompted.

"Well, yes, but I don't know what story you'd all like to hear, do I? I'm not psychic," Rozenn retorted in exasperation.

"Why not tell us about your scars?" One soldier suggested.

Rozenn raised a brow. "My scars? That's not very interesting," she protested.

"Oh, come on," a few of the crowd chanted, "tell us!"

"All right, if you insist. This one?" Rozenn paused and pointed to the slash on her cheek that went through her war paint in a straight line, stopping just under her eye, "This one was the dragon attack on Helgen. Mind you, it wasn't the dragon that gave it to me," she pointed out when a few of the audience looked excited.

"Got a nasty scratch when I jumped from the tower into the burning tavern, and of course, the dratted thing had already begun to heal by the time I got my hands unbound and had the presence of mind to heal myself. See? Boring. Told you so."

"What about the one on your eyebrow?" Ralof asked.

"This? I'm surprised you noticed it, it's healed well over time. That I got when I walked into a doorframe in Bruma, when I was staring at a fine specimen of Nordic manhood and should have been watching where I was going," she admitted, blushing at the memory. "I wanted so much to impress him. Spoiler alert, I did not impress him."

A few Stormcloaks piped up with further requests, and one of them said, "I thought all Bretons came from High Rock?"

"All Bretons do originate in High Rock, but surely you've seen Bretons settled in Skyrim? What about Belethor in town?" Rozenn asked, jerking her head vaguely in the direction of Whiterun.

"But he came from High Rock!"

"As did my ancestors, but my family has lived in Cyrodiil since before the Oblivion Crisis. We have property there, and a prosperous mercantile... well, my father would call it an empire, but really, it's not _that_ big. So I've never spent long in High Rock, but travelled extensively around Cyrodiil in my youth. And now my home is Skyrim," Rozenn replied in a tone that would brook no further enquiry.

"What about that scar?" Galmar rumbled, pointing to a bump on her elbow. Rozenn gave Galmar a look of pure gratitude, and twisted her arm awkwardly to show those nearest her which scar Galmar had indicated.

"Now this one actually is an interesting story. And after I tell it, it's someone else's turn. Do we have a deal?" Rozenn asked.

There was murmur of reluctant consensus from the assembled Stormcloaks.

"I was, hmm, what age, fifteen? Maybe sixteen. My brother Martyn was seventeen, and trying to earn a place in the Mages Guild. He was sent off to fetch a tome that had been stolen from the Guildhall in Skingrad where we were living at the time. Martyn had the excellent idea of bringing me with him - to "help" he said. "It'll be fun," he said," Rozenn started to sound annoyed. Silently, Galmar picked up her hand and squeezed her fingers gently.

"Anyway, four thieves had made off with this book in the hopes of selling it on the black market - in those days they might have made 300 septims on it, which would save them from being drafted to fight in the Legion, or at least I assume that was their reasoning. We never got the chance to ask them.

"They had been tracked to a cavern known to the Guild as a breeding ground for Imps," Rozenn continued.

"Excuse me, Dragonborn, what are Imps, exactly?" a young Stormcloak soldier raised his hand.

"You don't have Imps in Skyrim, do you? Well, my lad, Imps are _irritants_. Magical, lethal, irritants They have bat-like wings and hover most of the time. They do have little legs, but I think they are used only when nesting. Or maybe mating. I've never seen them on foot at any rate. And they have more Magicka than health. However, they use a nasty shock spell to hit an enemy and deplete their magicka and their health. A lone Imp could be taken by a novice mage, but a whole nest of them? They'd gang up and even Arch-Mage Aren of the Mages College could be killed by Imps in high enough numbers.

So Martyn thought to bring a second pair of hands to hold off the Imps. It didn't hurt that I was the sneaky type, trained by the best hunters in Chorrol. I'm sure you all know that a sneak attack does untold damage if the target doesn't know you're there, don't you?" Rozenn asked. The Stormcloaks all nodded.

"And yet you're all still "Death or Sovngarde" types," Rozenn muttered.

"You're getting off topic, Breton," Galmar rumbled.

"Sorry, love - er, General," Rozenn replied, biting her tongue.  
Galmar snorted in amusement at Rozenn's expression of agonised self-recrimination. "Well, Breton, if they hadn't guessed already, they certainly know now."

"Yep, yep, that was not my plan," she said through her fingers. "Lads," she said looking each of the crowd around the fire, "I would appreciate it if you lot forgot that I just said that."

"Said what?" Ralof asked, winking at her.

"Thanks, Ralof."

"No, really, what did you say? I wasn't paying attention."

"Shut up, Ralof," Galmar rumbled dangerously, while Rozenn burst into nervy giggles. "Breton, are you going to continue telling us about how those imps did... that to you?"

Rozenn gave him a look of pure gratitude that had no business warming him where and how it did, and she cleared her throat and turned back to the gathered Stormcloaks.

"So, where was I? Oh, yes, Martyn and I were sneaking into the cave outside Skingrad. We were just inside the door when we stumbled across one of the thieves," Rozenn paused to drink some mead.

"What did he do? The thief? When he came across intruders?" Ralof asked.

"Sorry, I should have made that clearer," Rozenn said, hurriedly swallowing her drink. "In the most literal sense of the word, we stumbled across him - or rather, the carcass of the thief. One or two of his comrades had slipped a knife between his ribs and slashed his throat. I am not too proud to admit that I panicked and ran out of there. And threw up. Not necessarily in that order," Rozenn said, making eye contact with the youngest soldiers around the campfire.

"No shame in that, Breton, it's a natural reaction," Galmar commented quietly, eyeing the same inexperienced soldiers, none of whom met his gaze.

"Martyn had to drag me back in after I rinsed my mouth out. He still needed that blasted book. When we reached the carcass the second time, I went through his pockets to see if he had the book on him. It was unlikely given the nature of his death, but it was worth checking - we found a second, less valuable book that had been taken from the local bookseller that actually made understanding Conjuration a bit easier, which was more helpful to me than Martyn, but neither one of us was prepared to turn our noses up at any edge we might get," Rozenn continued.

"Wise woman," Galmar commented, lips twitching, "pity the same cannot be said of you now."

Rozenn flicked the dregs from her mead bottle over him and continued her story. "We continued downhill and into the main chamber of the cavern, shocking a couple of Imps to death; they seemed to be left guarding the route into the main chamber. We slipped inside unnoticed and his behind some stalacmites - or are they stalagtites? - and made a quick plan."

"Were there lots of Imps?"

"About as many as a fair-sized wolf pack, I would guess. Maybe seven or eight after we killed the scouts. Most of them were gathered over two more carcasses in the most brightly-lit part of the central cave. Martyn and I split up and picked off the ones on the edges without being detected.

"He went around the cave to the left, and I went right. About-" at this point Rozenn stopped speaking, closed her eyes and started moving her hands about, as though pointing to physical spots in front of her -"about a third of the way around on my side was a recess in deep shadow. I sneaked in and sent a nasty little shock spell into the gang of Imps in the centre of the chamber and dropped back, out of sight before they could recover and swarm me."

"Little idiot! Did your brother tell you to do this?" Galmar interrupted, pale with rage.

"No, I used my initiative, General," Rozenn replied, unamused. "I occasionally use it to my and others' benefit, you know. And I knew that if they couldn't see me, they couldn't kill me; while Martyn was presented with multiple targets all facing away from him. I hoped sincerely that he would know what to do.

"Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it - the recess was blocked by a massive rock wall. I was cornered. However, I discovered that I hadn't been the first person to be cornered in that particular recess. As I shuffled backwards into the deepest shadows, I found the last thief - or rather, his severed leg - lying against the rock wall."

The Stormcloaks all let out moans of disgust.

"Yes, I said much the same thing," Rozenn commented with a slight grimace. "But it was my salvation. The Imps were attacking and I had no room to dodge, but when I felt the severed leg I shifted to the other side and clocked my head against some sort of trigger, and I was tipped back into a hidden chamber; the wall sealed itself again before the Imps could follow me through."

"That was lucky," Galmar commented, eyeing the Breton suspiciously. There had to be something more to the story than that bit of good luck.

"Not really. Do any of you know about Minotaurs?"

Nobody answered.

"I'll take that as a "no" then. A Minotaur is like a cow, except they are universally male - they are magical bulls, really; they walk upright on their hindquarters, and they wield heavy battleaxes or warhammers, usually steel or ebony.

"They came into Cyrodiil during the Oblivion Crisis - or I think that's when they did. Maybe they just bred at that time... Although how, when there are no lady Minotaurs..."

Galmar cleared his throat irritably and Rozenn shook herself out of her musing.

"How and ever... Hunting them for their horns became popular around that time, at any rate. They have huge horns that go out, either side of their big bull-heads, with great alchemical properties. And they are very, very cranky.

"And there was one in that hidden cavern with me."

Rozenn paused to let that information sink in. There were gasps from around the fire.

"How did you find out it was in there?" Ralof asked, face ashen as he pictured an angry Minotaur and a teenaged Rozenn.

"I was lying flat on my back, catching my breath when I realised that my breathing could not possibly be that loud. I turned my head this way and that - the cave was darker than the main cavern, but my eyes were well adjusted to the dark. Beside me was the rest of the last thief. I grabbed the book from his cold, dead hands and stuffed it in my pack.

"You know the sound when a horse stomps an unshod hoof on cobbles?"

Heads around the campfire nodded.

"I heard that, and a change in the sound that couldn't be my breathing, and turned, ever so slowly. I had never seen a Minotaur before, but I knew from descriptions in the Fighter's Guild what one looked like. It gave me nightmares for a straight year after, seeing the horns and hearing it snuffling, searching for me.

"I forgot about the Imp nest outside and I moved slowly back to the rock wall, trying to find the trigger to let me out. While I was tugging on rocks, and pressing my hands in the cracks around the edge of the wall the Minotaur charged."

Galmar tensed beside her, and she turned to reassure him, only to falter at the look on his face.

"What happened, Rozenn?" Ralof asked quietly, when she didn't speak any further, gazing raptly at the General.

Rozenn turned to him and shrugged. 

"I don't remember a lot of the details after the horn smashed my elbow. I know I was tossed over the thing's head and deeper into the cave. I definitely hit my head hard enough to concuss me. I know the rock wall suddenly opened and Martyn's Light spell illuminated the whole place, blinding me and the Minotaur. I heard the Minotaur fighting - its warhammer crashing around. Before I passed out I remember a Nord in shining steel armour handed me a healing potion to drink, and poured one over my smashed elbow - it hurt like you would not believe, and I screamed. Martyn raced over and gave me a healing, but I passed out while he was doing that.

"And when I woke up my arm was like this. End of story," Rozenn said with a sly smile. The Stormcloaks all clamoured with complaints and questions.

"That's not how you end a story!"

"What about the Imps?"

"You have to tell us what happened!"

"How did the Nord find you?"

"Who was the Nord?"

"But that's my side of the story, lads. I've told you how I got the scar; you all know I survived to tell the tale. What more do you need?" Rozenn asked innocently.

"If you're going to tell a tale, Breton, at least tell it right," Galmar grumbled.

"Oh, all right, then, if you insist," Rozenn grinned wickedly.

"We do," Ralof chipped in.

"I had this from Martyn after I recovered from our little misadventure," Rozenn said. "The Fighter's Guild had been hearing reports of Minotaur attacks and goring around the vineyards, and they were seeking a wild Minotaur in all the local hidey-holes.

"When they spoke with the Guild of Mages and heard about this particular cavern being used by brigands they put two and two together, and figured it would be worth paying a visit to see if the Minotaur they were seeking was in there. From what I'm told, Minotaurs will leave Imps in peace if the Imps do not disturb the Minotaur in question - the Minotaur gets a safe palce to nest in and the Imps get free food from the Minotaur's leftovers and scraps.

"Apparently the Fighter's Guild crew arrived in the cavern just as I distracted the Imps and fell back into the hidden cave. The Fighter's Guild and Martyn slaughtered the Imps quickly, and when Martyn realised I wasn't in the cavern anymore, they started looking for a way through the rock wall. It was Fjolfr who triggered the wall to open, and had the presence of mind to stick his sword in the mechanism to keep it open.

"Eponis Caerunia and Uramulg Bar-Shulg took care of the angry Minotaur while Martyn and Fjolfr looked after me and my injuries. Sadly none of the Fighter's Guilders were trained healers, and Martyn only specialised in Restoration magic years after this happened, so my elbow wasn't healed as well as it might have been. The bones knit together, all right, but... well, you know the saying about old soldiers and their scars being good weather forecasters," Rozenn shrugged.

"I bet your family wasn't pleased about this," Ralof said.

Rozenn gave a small laugh, tapping her nose and pointing at him.

"You're right there, Ralof. Mama was _livid_, because no nobleman in his right mind wants a _scarred wife_. I also think she was worried about me and trying to hide it. She hid it _very_ well that time. Martyn was accepted into the University shortly after that, and so went away to the Imperial City. I hadn't a friend in Skingrad - everyone thought I was as scheming and socially ambitious as my parents. Once I had the use of my arm again I ran away, and eventually ended up here," Rozenn finished off, looking a bit melancholy.

"Nowhere better for you to be, Nordling," Galmar said quietly.

"Nordling? What happened to Breton? Or Ice Veins?" Rozenn asked in surprise.

Galmar shrugged. "You're more Nord than most Nords you meet outside of Skyrim. Only small. So Nordling."

Rozenn chuckled. "I wonder how long that'll last. Let's go back to your tent."

"My tent?" Galmar asked, mock-innocently.

"They already know that's where I'm going to end up, Bear-Man. So, come on, let's go. It's someone else's turn for a story."


End file.
